


Oamenii Sunt Oameni 'Pentru Ca Sunt Mizerabili

by Kamikrazy



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Eventual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Trevor/Sypha, Monsters, Multi, Snark, Sypha Belnades cameo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23151457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamikrazy/pseuds/Kamikrazy
Summary: [CONTAINS SEASON 3 SPOILERS]Trevor just can't leave well enough alone, and one day it's going to get him killed.
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Trevor Belmont
Comments: 16
Kudos: 189





	1. Chapter 1

Trevor Belmont was a hunter of monsters. Full stop. He considered himself a fine one too, since he still had all of his limbs and organs in chiefly the same places and conditions as they'd been in at his birth, which wasn't something that ought to be taken lightly. He'd survived the predations of the undead hordes on Gresit, storming Dracula's own castle, and the vampiric civil war that had followed the Lord of Shadows' death, and he'd done it with an acceptable amount of what he might be inclined to call 'style'.

This didn’t keep him from understanding on a very fundamental level that if his predecessors had been the sorts to be properly interred in the ground, the lands around the Belmont Hold would be in a constant state of upheaval from the speed at which his forebears would be spinning in their respective graves thanks to his current train of thought.

His ears perked at the sound of the low, ululating cry that filtered through the trees. It was undoubtedly a wolf, and judging by the lack of a response call, it was alone. His traitorous bastard of a brain seemed to find the idea of letting a spade be a spade abhorrent, so of course the sound reminded him of Alucard. Of how the halfbreed bastard was alone. Acting as the sole custodian of the houses of both of their tragically dead families. Shortly after taking an active part in the murder of his father.

It made him feel like a small man, after his big talk to Sypha about how his home had not been a lonely one. As much as he and the fang-faced, flaxen-haired prick had clashed, they’d shared a sort of comraderie that Trevor kind of...missed? Perhaps? And there was a difference between giving someone space and leaving a broody, surprisingly morose blond to stew over the series of tragedies that had led them to where they’d gotten.

It had been a little over a month. Not that Trevor had been _keeping track_ or anything, and not that he thought time necessarily mattered to a quasi-undead tit. But it seemed an appropriate amount of time to have gotten some deep thinking out of the way and possibly even to start picking up after some of the mess they’d been involved with causing. By his own reckoning, Trevor himself would’ve started at least kicking some of the debris into the corners out of frustration by week three, and Alucard had seemed the type to be fussy.

Perhaps he could just...drop by to see how the old homestead was doing. Trevor _was_ a little curious about whether or not the new Lord of the demesne had thrown any of the hard-earned Belmont artifacts into the midden.

He sighed deeply, stood up, and brushed some dirt off of his clothes. He had no reason to worry about Sypha, who was comfortably in her element, currently surrounded by a little cluster of Speakers. After the events in Lindenfield, he was grateful that they’d bumped into the train—not Sypha’s group, but still willing to welcome them both with open arms and the balm of trustworthiness. Other adventures notwithstanding, Sypha was adamant that she personally relate at least the story of Dracula’s downfall to any group of her people that they came across, and he wouldn’t dream of arguing. He agreed that it was important information, and Speakers preferred to hear a tale from its source rather than secondhand when at all possible. The group they had met was well-off enough that they’d offered to share their supplies and skills for as long as it took for one or more of their number to memorize the entire account in all of its details. The only trouble was that the process was exhaustive, and all throughout Trevor found himself bored out of his wits and restless. The group even had a few magicians who were more familiar with wards and charms than Sypha, so creatures of the night gave them a wide berth, effectively leaving Trevor with _absolutely nothing to do_.

The conversation with Sypha had been surprisingly easy to navigate. For all that he’d been slightly apprehensive about breaking the news of his intention to leave her behind, she’d seemed sympathetic—if a little condescending in that typically _Sypha_ way. The concern and distress in her eyes had turned into a fond but exasperated look that had put Trevor in mind of a highborn lady looking at a favorite but particularly restless dog. He was willing to let her have it if it got him what he wanted, but his pride did kick a _little_ fuss that he had to suppress. In the end it was better for her to be safe and surrounded by people who could better tend to the emotional wounds that had been left behind by the Lindenfield affair than him...at least for a while.

It took a little arranging, and he was _explicitly_ told not to just wander off, but in the hallowed tradition of the Speakers there was a gathering and a consensus was reached that he would be sent off with a ride and some supplies in exchange for the wagon he was leaving behind with Sypha. The horse he’d been leant had enough charms and protective wards worked into its tack that anyone who looked at it sideways would find themselves regretting it, and the Morningstar remained a comforting, jingling weight at his hip, so even without the benefit of Sypha’s magic he was sure he could survive the ride. It would be good to have the opportunity to get in a little _à la carte_ drinking as well, without the need to fear being left out in the cold.

“You’ll have a newfound appreciation for my cold feet by the time you get back,” Sypha’s smile was genuine, if a little strained from fatigue, as she handed him the bedroll he still had to buckle in place behind his saddle. “Don’t you _dare_ have too much fun before you get back.”

“How could I? You won’t be there to let me know just how much I’m having.” He huffed, offering a smile back. A part of him hated that he felt so compelled to leave, knowing that he’d miss the easy comfort she instilled in him, the casual—and less than casual—intimacy she was willing to share. But he didn’t fit in with the Speakers and he couldn’t keep ignoring the restlessness bubbling under his skin.

“This group is heading towards Beiuș in a few days, and then on to Oradea, so you will know where to go once you are done. I will leave word for you so you can find me again. Say ‘hello’ to Adrian for me when you see him. Perhaps I will look into a way to bespell a bird to take letters back and forth between the three of us. It would be nice to hear from him,” Sypha’s piercing blue eyes searched his face for a long moment and she nibbled her bottom lip in that little gesture that meant, for once, she felt tongue-tied in the face of something she didn’t know how to address. The moment passed as she seemed to resign the words hovering at the tip of her tongue to unspoken oblivion, her shoulders slumping a little in resignation. “ _Be nice_.”

“I’ll tell him you said he has to.” Trevor waved, sparing one last glance at her before putting his heels to the gelding’s flanks and urging it into a quick gallop, his mouth set in a tight frown as he admitted to himself that a part of him was running away.


	2. Chapter 2

The birds were singing and the sun was just beginning to rise, painting the small, fluffy clouds with delicate pinks and purples that echoed those of the early-blooming wildflowers that dotted the landscape. All seemed right with the world, peaceful in a way that spoke of new beginnings and the freshness of rebirth.

It was enough to make Trevor want to retch.

Admittedly, Wallachia could be lovely. Its high mountains and deep forests had a certain barbaric charm to them. Monsters and demons aside, the countryside had a feeling of mystery and permanence that seemed to say _I have been here long before you, and will be here long after_ more effectively than any of the few churches he had ever set foot in. But today’s glory was nothing short of infuriating.

He had been away from Sypha and the speakers for a handful of days, and by his own reckoning he was sure he was making good distance. Though his horse was in fine shape—he knew better than to push it too hard, and it was unreasonably stolid, even for a gelding—he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep the entire time. At least one group of night creatures attacked him ruthlessly every night as soon as the moon rose with a single-mindedness that made him wonder if they were carrying grudges based on the number of them that he and Sypha had eliminated in their passing. He’d barely stolen a few hours’ rest before sunrise and was _still_ picking pieces of what had looked like a harpy whose mother had fucked some kind of slug out of his hair. Nature’s God-given splendour was sitting _very_ poorly with him as a result.

By his own internal compass and the prickling sense of familiarity that caught his attention whenever he neared the countryside around his childhood home, he judged that he was at best a hard day’s ride away from his goal, but as far as he could see, he had the time to let his horse enjoy itself a bit. He stifled a jaw-cracking yawn and patted it’s long neck, coaxing it into a canter and turning off of the road he had been following. The gelding deserved some rest even if he felt they could push on, and he knew a paddock that would provide a good place for the beast to forage, if not himself.

Trevor dismounted when they reached a small field, bordered on one side by thick forest and the other by a shallow creek. He and the horse both had a long drink of the bitingly cold water and he attempted to rinse the remaining gore out of his hair as it moved to crop mouthfuls of tall meadow-oat. The sudden shock of cold on his scalp made him curse, but it felt good to be a little closer to clean.

The sun slowly crept higher into the sky, just beginning to peek over the treetops and bringing with it a gentle, almost teasing warmth. Trevor shook the excess water out of his hair and picked his way over to the lonesome trunk of a tree that had probably been felled in the time of his great-grandfather. It was on a slight rise in the turf, and if he sat with his back to it he’d be protected from behind. He could relax a while and watch his horse browse, and both of them would be refreshed for a hard, fast ride to cover the last of the distance to the Belmont Hold before nightfall.

The scent of fresh grasses and fragrant wildflowers was surprisingly soothing. A nearby patch of wild thyme perfumed the air in a way that was strangely nostalgic, and Trevor tipped his head back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The gelding made soft, horsey noises as it nosed through the grasses, and for a little while all seemed to be right with the world.

It made the flesh between his shoulder blades crawl.

“Bloody hell. Can’t have _one_ nice moment, can you Belmont? Can’t leave well enough a-fucking-lone. God forbid you _enjoy_ anything, you cynical bastard."

Somewhere beyond the tree line a songbird twittered its come-hither tune with a flippancy that made Trevor’s lips twist into a scowl.

“The Archangel Michael could come down from on high with a bouquet of fucking roses and tell you that you’d secured your place in Heaven, and you’d try to punch him in the fucking face, wouldn’t you?”

He sighed deeply, forcing some of his irritation down and compacting it into a nice, tight bundle that he could use the next time he had to kill something. He visualized it sitting next to a number of similar wads of emotion, each its own little bubble of something that he fought to keep Sypha from ever catching a whiff of. As refreshing as it was to be with a woman who didn’t give him the passive-aggressive runaround—Speaker culture revolved on the safety and inviolability of a tightly-knit family group, which had led by necessity to the expectation that communication was important and slights and hurts were to be shared and resolved—it was exhausting to someone who had needed to nurse his feelings alone for as long as he had. He’d barely managed to muddle through a single honest conversation about his concerns for Sypha’s safety after a particularly bloody altercation, and even then his real feelings had only come out once they’d descended to the level of a honest to God screaming match. He didn’t want to drag her into a giant row every time he invariably failed to process feeling something more complicated than ‘hungry’.

He wasn’t sure when his stewing turned to dozing, but he woke with a snort and a start to the feeling of his mount snuffing at his cheeks and shoulders. He shook himself to try and dispel the last clutches of sleep and wiped a thread of drool off of the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. The sun had crawled most of the way across the sky overhead, the shadows of the trees had stretched most of the way across the clearing, brushing the near bank of the stream. He had a hard ride ahead of him if he wanted to reach his goal before they were in danger.


	3. Chapter 3

Last year’s leaf litter padded the sound of hoofbeats as Trevor urged his horse through the trees. Light pooled on the forest floor where it broke through the new growth of the canopy overhead. Somewhere a little distance off, a stream chuckled as it carried snowmelt over rocks and little waterfalls. Squirrels chittered in the branches overhead and the occasional crow called for its mate. It was almost surprising to feel and hear the life suffusing the land around him after everything had been so deathly quiet the last time he’d traveled through the area surrounding the Belmont Hold. Nature itself had seemed to hold its breath following the fall of Dracula; waiting for something worse to happen.

There was a flash of russet and white to his left as his passage startled a couple of deer into flight. He turned his head enough to watch them bound into the undergrowth and did his best to push longing thoughts of fresh venison out of his mind. Sypha didn’t eat meat, as was traditional for Speakers, and though she didn’t force him to abstain, trying for anything larger than a hare or two was wasteful when he was the only one eating.

Perhaps Alucard would indulge him in a hunt when he arrived...he felt he deserved _something_ nice for coming out all this way.

He was snapped out of wistful thoughts of roasting meat by a sudden cacophony of snapping and popping to his left. He dug his heels into his mount’s ribs and spurred it to an extra burst of speed just as the trunk of a fir _painfully_ nearby gave out with a spray of splinters and lurched towards them, crashing to the forest floor just behind them. Foiled, the beast that had tried to catch them off guard howled and gnashed its teeth.

Trevor swore, bracing himself and leaning down over his horse’s neck as a huge bough from the fallen tree whooshed overhead. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and leapt from the saddle as soon as he saw enough space to roll without immediately slamming into a tree, trusting his horse to get out of the way as his would-be assailant hurled more chunks of wood at them. He scrambled for cover as a mass of roots and earth slammed into the ground to his right, just missing his leg.

The trunk he was hiding behind shuddered as the wood less than an inch above his head was suddenly pulped by a blow from huge claws. He threw himself to the side and raced for a large pine as a bearlike paw slammed into the weakened trunk and sent it toppling to the ground. The creature reared back onto its hind legs and yowled like a scalded cat, its long tongue lashing the air and flicking spit and foam.

A lance of orange sunlight struck the creature full on as his former hiding place tore down some of the branches overhead, giving Trevor a chance to see it properly. It looked like it had been pulled out of the nightmares of some rabid vivisectionist; bits of bear, boar, and deer all mashed together with no regard for rhyme or reason, twitching sinew and bone peeking through hide and flesh that was sloughing off in chunks as it twisted and snarled. It sniffed for him in great whuffing breaths and he could see that there was nothing left in its eye sockets—most of the flesh had already slipped off of its skull.

He took his chance to climb as it reared and bellowed a challenge, foul-smelling gore spraying from its jaws as it tossed its head. A weak bough shifted under his foot and gave him away with a squeal, but he managed to gain a few more feet before the creature charged, wrapping its forelimbs around the trunk and tearing a chunk of bark off with its teeth in a show of mindless rage. Trevor loosed the Morningstar from his belt and wrapped the chain around his hands, leaping from his perch as the creature braced its half-dozen assorted hindlegs and _pushed_ , intent on crushing the tree under its bulk. He landed on its back with a squelching thud, feeling some of the bones under its wet, slick flesh break under his weight. It bellowed in frustration, rearing back almost quickly enough to buck him off before he looped a length of the Morningstar’s chain around its neck to brace himself. The creature shook itself, Trevor grunted as a flailing hoof thudded into his side and swore loudly as the beast took off at a spine-shattering, lurching gallop, slamming into trees to try to dislodge him.

The encroaching dark and the sudden barrage of tree limbs at head height made everything that much harder. Trevor ducked down with a curse, trying to avoid taking an entire tree limb to the face. The stench of the beast almost made him gag, and as he tightened his grip on the Morningstar’s chain, it dug into the flesh of the creature’s throat and sent up a spray of thick, rancid blood that slicked his hands and splattered against his face as the beast redoubled its efforts to throw him off. It wheeled in place as he pulled harder, sawing the chain back and forth in an effort to behead the damned thing as it threw itself into everything in its path. His breath was driven out of him in a rush as it reared back and slammed him into a tree, sandwiching him between its fetid bulk and the rough bark in a desperate effort to scrape him off. He felt something in his chest snap, but grit his teeth and soldiered through the sudden burst of pain, sawing harder and barking out a sharp sound of triumph as he felt the links bite into bone. The creature shrieked wetly, spit and blood fountaining into the air as it dropped to the ground and tried to roll over on top of him, trapping one of his legs as the flailing, mismatched limbs on its sides and back buckled and flailed, barely saving him from being crushed entirely. 

Trevor cursed, braced the knee of his free leg against the spot between the hulking beast’s shoulder blades, and pulled with everything he had, ignoring the wrenching, twisting pain of his other hip dislocating as his quarry writhed and squirmed against the ground. The edges of his vision went red, his hands stung as the Morningstar’s chain bit mercilessly into his flesh, but he was Trevor _Fucking_ Belmont, and he wasn’t going to let some disgusting lump of flesh and belligerence be the thing that ended him in the middle of the forest a stone’s throw away from his family’s ancestral home. The sheer fucking _audacity_ of the universe for even suggesting that he might be taken down _now_ filled his veins with fire and spite and gave him the last burst of strength he needed to _pull_ , a roar bubbling out of his chest and mixing with the tortured tearing of flesh and crackling of bone and sinew as he fought his way through the messiest decapitation of his hunting career. The beast gnashed its teeth to the end, empty, oozing eye sockets glaring accusingly at him as he finally severed the spine. A great, shuddering convulsion wracked every inch of tortured flesh and something hard and sharp thudded into the back of Trevor’s skull and everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

Pain. Cold. Dark. His throat felt raw as he gasped, something shifted and white light burst behind his closed eyelids, the sound of something creaking and groaning swum to his ears, swelling and fading like he was underwater.

He flinched away from the brush of something cool and dry against his cheek, groaning as his ribs and leg and hands and head throbbed sharp counterpoints of agony in response. He tried to open his eyes to see what was coming  _ now _ but all he could make out in the darkness was a thin smear of white and dozens of dancing pinpricks of gold that made his head spin and stomach churn.

_“BeLmoNT?”_

He tried to curse, but something in his chest pinched and he struggled to cough to clear his lungs and darkness came swimming back to overtake everything else. Though he could feel and smell the comforting solidity of the earth under his cheek it felt like he was falling, drifting slowly downwards, and hopefully when he finally landed in Hell he’d have a second to catch his breath before he had to get back to work.

_ “aH, fUCk.” _


	5. Chapter 5

His first lucid impression was of a definite lack of the scent of brimstone. Other sensations came trickling back much slower.

His mouth felt dry and tasted bitter and herbal. His awareness of the rest of his body returned in steps that started at the tips of his fingers and toes and crawled slowly towards his core. He became aware of an itching ache in his palms, the slight roughness of bandages meeting his fingertips as he curled them lightly to investigate. He flexed his toes and rolled his ankles carefully, noticing a slight ache in his left that carried up the rest of the leg and got more intense at his hip. The memory of the pop of the joint dislocating tickled the back of his mind, but a careful shift of his leg didn’t bring with it the kind of sharp pain he associated with a fresh injury. He took a long, slow breath, feeling the haze of medicament-induced sleep clear from his head. Unexpected, but better than he probably had a right to expect.

He opened his eyes slowly, expecting the worst.

He was greeted with the sight of the canopy of a surprisingly huge bed, gauzy fabric tinted with slices of soft, silvery moonlight that was peeking through gaps in tall curtains to his left and right. He lay there in stunned silence for a long moment, shifting carefully to brace himself on his elbows and consider the room as best as he could in the close darkness. He was lying on a sumptuous, soft bed that didn’t seem to be stuffed with anything even remotely close to straw, on clean-smelling sheets that felt like they were made of the kind of linen a village girl dreamt of using for her wedding dress. He had an inkling of where he had to be, but he’d never for a second thought that  _ Dracula’s castle _ of all places would have  _ guest rooms _ . His mind boggled at the thought that some vampiric noble might have once lain on this same mattress in this same room, hiding from the sun.

Trevor’s attention was suddenly caught by the barely audible creak of wood on wood and well-oiled hinges. He winced as his eyes failed to adjust quickly enough to the light from a small candelabra as it swung into view, followed by a pale arm and, finally, the rest of his visitor.

He could have sworn he’d seen a brief look of shock on Alucard’s face, but if he had it was gone between one blink and the next as the tall blond made his way over to the bedside.

“Back amongst the living, I see. How do you feel?”

Trevor huffed softly, shuffling until he could sit up fully, braced against the headboard with his pillow lumping up against the small of his back. The other man busied himself with setting the candelabra down on a table at the bedside and pulling up a heavy wooden chair to sit on. The light did little to illuminate the room as a whole, but it leant a golden cast to Alucard’s pale skin and flaxen hair. For a moment, impassive and otherworldly as he was, the half-vampiric bastard looked angelic.

“Like I’ve been put through the wringer. How long was I out?”

“I found you yesterday, just after moonrise. You’ve slept through the day, and it’s past midnight now,” the blond’s voice was, as always, carefully measured. Quiet to the point where it was almost a whisper. Embarrassingly intimate in this quiet, domestic setting. “You were concussed, and feverish. That creature you managed to kill seems to have had noxious blood. It poisoned you when it got into your wounds.”

“How did you find me?”

“A horse with tack covered in Speaker runes came charging out of the forest, right up to the castle doors.” Alucard clasped his hands together, leaning forward and considering Trevor gravely. “When I managed to catch it and calm it down I recognized your scent on it, and went looking. You’re lucky your mount didn’t decide to bolt deeper into the woods. You might never have been found.”

Trevor felt his lips twist into an unconscious scowl. He had no doubt that a normal human wouldn’t have been able to find him with nothing to go on but a faint scent and horse tracks in a pitch black forest. It was more than a little humiliating. What an end to the Belmont line that would have been.

“I brought you back here and cleaned you up. Tended to your injuries and dosed you with some remedies that were, thankfully, effective.” The blond’s soft but piercing voice tugged Trevor out of his pessimistic exploration of what might have been. He looked over to watch Alucard lean over the arm of his chair, reaching below for what turned out to be a slim, leather-bound book. It seemed like the other man had been watching over him at least long enough to have had the opportunity to grow bored, and intended to continue to do as much.

However, Trevor had no intention of just lying abed. His aches and pains weren’t bad enough to make him want to nurse them, and he had become astonishingly aware of the fact that he had been changed out of his clothes and into a soft, somewhat frilly nightgown after Alucard’s declaration that he’d been ‘cleaned up’.

“Where are my pants.”

Alucard turned a long-suffering look on him over the top of his book, leaning an elbow on one arm of his chair and letting his occupied hand dangle over the other. The unconscious grace of the movement, the way a lock of his golden hair slipped down onto his cheek, made Trevor feel even more uncomfortable and resentful of the state he was in.

“Your clothes have been washed and are hanging to dry. If you’re worried about your questionable modesty, I needed to bathe you to make sure that your wounds were properly cleaned. I’m sure I can find you  _ something _ to wear in the interim, but I’ve seen your tiny prick, and honestly it’s nothing that would shock me should that nightgown fail to do its job properly.”

“ _Excuse_ me. I’ll have you know that I’ve been told my cock is both well-proportioned  _ and _ rather attractive.” Trevor snorted, appreciating the barb for what it was: the recognition that he wasn’t so delicate as to need to be treated with kid gloves. He shifted enough to dangle his legs over the edge of the bed, hissing softly as his bare feet touched cold stone.

“I’m sure I don’t care about the opinion of the woman of negotiable affection who gave you that stunning endorsement.”

“Since I’m grateful for your efforts, I won’t tell Sypha that you called her a whore just then.”

Trevor’s mood lifted substantially at the sight of Alucard’s expression when his statement sunk in. The blond’s marble-pale skin reddened to satisfyingly rosy hue and he stood so suddenly that his chair nearly toppled over.

“I’ll go and find you something more appropriate to wear. If you feel able when I get back, we can move to the kitchen for dinner. Don’t leave this room until I return.”


	6. Chapter 6

Trevor had barely had the time to stretch and walk a careful circuit around the room to test the strength of his injured leg before Alucard had returned with a change of clothes and—thankfully—his boots. The pants were a little too long, and the shirt was a little too tight, but otherwise, considering the garments had been scavenged from Dracula’s barracks, Trevor had to admit that they’d do. The material was surprisingly fine and soft for soldiers’ clothes; even the socks, which were miles away from the wooly, itchy things Trevor only suffered to buy for himself in the wintertime. It rankled a little, knowing that even the most rank-and-file thrall had clothes a nobleman’s son would happily wear, but he supposed that he ought to be grateful.

The blond had escorted him through the silent, airy hallways in relative silence. Trevor had made bland small-talk for the sake of listening to something other than the sounds of their footsteps echoing against stone and the soft, disconcerting buzz of the bottled lightning lamps set into the walls. It seemed that his earlier barb had stuck a little deeper than expected; Alucard’s answers were curt and he walked just brusquely enough to stay ahead of him, but Trevor could still see a hint of a blush on the tips of his ears.

He hadn’t expected them to actually reach a kitchen at the end of the almost uncomfortably long walk. He sat down in one of the modest, but sturdy and comfortable chairs around a surprisingly small dining table and took the room in while Alucard puttered around, fetching this and that from cupboards and drawers. It was...homey, if missing a handful of touches of personality that Trevor was used to seeing through the windows of the various houses he’d passed. The black and white tile on the floor was impeccably clean, as were the counters, fixtures and tabletop. Copper-coloured pots and pans sat on shelves or hung from hooks set into the wall over a counter fitted with two wide, deep sinks that looked like they had somehow been made of porcelain. The range itself was made of beautifully wrought cast iron without a hint of rust and there was an actual glass window on the firebox so one could see the strength of the fire inside without needing to worry about sparks wafting through a grate. It seemed ridiculous to think that the Lord of Shadows had installed something as banal as this into his fortress, but...the reason for that apparent madness was standing right in front of him, fishing a twine-bound bundle of herbs out of a steaming pot. So much of the fuckery going on in the world could’ve been avoided if some sanctimonious prick had just left one damn woman alone. Or even if someone, _anyone_ , had stood up and gotten in the way of that self same bastard and put a stop to something that was unabashedly evil instead of thinking that it was somebody else’s job. But no, it seemed as though the wheel just kept spinning back to the same position every time.

“Do you feel ill?” Alucard’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he realized he’d been staring sightlessly at the tabletop, just to the left of the base of an attractive silver candlestick. The blond looked impassive as ever, but his tone had been surprisingly...soft? Gentle…? It had probably been his imagination…

“I’m fine,” Trevor huffed, straightening up and slinging one arm over the back of his chair. “Got lost in thought.”

Alucard’s eyes narrowed a little; Trevor fancied he could see the man running through all of the retorts he could give and the potential that they’d be turned into some kind of innuendo and smiled lopsidedly as the game of mental chess seemed to result in a tactical withdrawal. Rather than a glib insult, he was rewarded with a bowl of fragrant soup. He charitably waited to see if Alucard was going to serve himself before eating, but the other man waved a dismissive hand.

“I have already eaten. I made extra intending to bring you some, but hadn’t anticipated feeding you while you were conscious.”

Trevor considered the other man for a long moment before turning his attention the contents of the bowl as Alcuard poured them both white wine in actual stemware, like they were two lords indulging in a late-night dinner rather than the disavowed sons of outcasts with little but ruins and wretched memories to their names. There didn’t appear to be anything he couldn’t recognize in the mixture; he could make out flakes of white flesh that were probably frog or trout, and from the scent the green bits were wild onion and garlic scapes. Again, he thought longingly of venison, but having hot food in front of him coaxed his stomach into reminding him that he was hungry, and that anything even half-decent would be good enough.

“I’m beginning to think that you Belmonts aren’t entirely human.”

Trevor paused with the bowl halfway to his lips, considering the other man for a long moment before taking a sip of the broth. Alucard had provided him with a fork, but, surprisingly, no spoon. “Oh? What would make you say that?”

“I’ve done an admittedly fantastic job of tending to your injuries, but half a day ago you were in a poison-induced coma with a useless leg and at least three broken ribs.” The blond shrugged one shoulder expressively, leaning back in his seat and swirling the pale golden liquid in his glass. “If I were anyone else, seeing you now I’d think that you’d come away from killing that monster relatively unscathed.”

“Doesn’t do to let it show, does it? I’ve always been hearty, anyways.” Trevor shrugged, putting the bowl back down and fishing out a chunk of what turned out to be frog with his fork. The meat was slightly sweet and exceptionally tender; a part of him rankled that Alucard was a good cook on top of everything else. “Makes sense that my family was bred to be sturdy, with our line of work.”

“Yes. I’ve come across some accounts of your line’s nigh legendary resilience in a few of the volumes in your family’s records.” Alucard’s posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp; evaluating. Trevor wasn’t sure he liked what he could see in them, dancing alongside the reflected light from the candles standing between them. “According to one, an ancestor of yours once went several weeks without sleep; a feat that would be impossible for most humans.”

Trevor snorted softly, gesturing vaguely with the fork in his hand. “It was probably an exaggeration. Isn’t it normal for the accomplishments of ‘heroes’ to be blown out of proportion? I’m sure you’ve heard at least _some_ stories of martyred saints. My ancestors had egos. They probably figured that those who came after should strive to be superhuman or some such shit.”

“Perhaps. But I was given to believe that the Belmonts were meticulous record keepers. The accounts in the Hold speak of your family’s ties to alchemists and mages, occult forces and powers beyond the ken of the Church.” _There_ it was. Alucard spoke no louder, but his voice was _sharp_. Redolent with an air of accusation that Trevor had heard a thousand times before, from a thousand sneering mouths. “Your ancestors weren’t mere collectors, they were _practitioners_ of many arts in the pursuit of their prey. I’m surprised that I didn’t consider the possibility that your family was persecuted for more reasons than their hobby when I first met you.”

“...Funny, to hear _you_ talk about questionable family ‘hobbies’.” Trevor nearly spat the words, draining his wineglass in one go and glaring at the other man, willing him to take the hint and put the subject to rest. It felt strange to have such a sweet taste in his mouth when his words felt so bitter. “I don’t know what my ancestors did, and I don’t really give a fuck. Those records are yours to do with what you please, but when I want to hear about them from you I’ll ask.”

“We are the products of our families’ mistakes, Belmont. Ignorance of them won’t save us from them.” Alucard shrugged slightly, draining his own glass in turn and putting it down on the tabletop with a soft but final-sounding _clink_. He rose from his seat with the preternatural grace of his kind, his chair sliding soundlessly backwards. “I’ll leave you to your supper. And though I doubt you’ll pay me any mind, I’d suggest you make your way back to your room when you’ve finished. You’ll gain little from wandering around, and I wouldn’t want to have to find you lamed in some distant hallway.”

Trevor snorted in derision, but refrained from retorting as the other man swept out of the room. He could all but hear Sypha’s voice warning him to _be nice_ , and the pall of melancholia that had settled over Alucard’s shoulders made him glad to see the back of the blond. If it were up to him, he’d be on his way come daybreak, cursing the softheartedness that had put him in this predicament in the first place. But as he shifted in his chair his hip protested bitterly thanks to the long, stair-filled walk that had brought him to the kitchen, and he had to admit—if only privately—that he wouldn’t make it even halfway back to meet up with Sypha without properly recuperating.

“Fucking bastard couldn’t have even stuck around to do the fucking dishes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Wikipedia the modern kitchen range was invented by Sir Benjamin Thompson, an American-born British scientist and inventor who lived in the 1790s. These ranges were masonry or brickwork. As the events of the Castlevania animated series ostensibly take place in the 15th-16th centuries, Alucard's kitchen should definitely not have the cast-iron stove I describe, as these didn't replace masonry stoves until the 19th century, but Alucard can be seen taking a baking tray of roasted garlic and what looks like rosemary out of a front-opening oven that also has a metal hob. Obviously, Vampire technology includes forgotten advancements in kitchen technology, and I have decided the reason that Trevor is familiar with the range/doesn't really care about it is that the Belmonts used to have one (probably stolen from the manse of a slain vampire).


	7. Chapter 7

The candles had burned down about an inch by the time Trevor finished his meal, and honestly he felt better for having something hot in his stomach, even if it hadn’t been as substantial as he would’ve preferred. Thoughts of having hot, fresh bread to mop up the dregs of the broth teased him as he tipped the last of it out of the pot and into his bowl, and his thoughts wandered to the small sack of flour tucked into one of the saddlebags on his borrowed horse. He had little experience with baking, but the idea that Alucard might know how to do it made him traitorously tempted to ask. His chair scraped noisily against the tile as he pushed it back and got to his feet, gathering up his bowl in one hand and the two wine glasses in the other and limping everything over to the basins set into the countertop.

It took a little poking and prodding around to find the means of calling water to the spigot, but he eventually figured it out. It was something of a marvel not to need to pump the handle for there to be a strong stream of surprisingly hot water issuing from the spout, but he’d seen enough in his life to appreciate the convenience without feeling the need to question it.

He did his best to do a quick but thorough job, leaning against the counter and listening to the faint rattle of pipes behind the wall, the soft pop and rustle of the fire in the stove. The modest room felt somehow larger, _emptier,_ now that he wasn’t preoccupied. The silence felt sterile. Disconcerting. _Lonely_.

Trevor gritted out a perfunctory curse and threw the wet washcloth he’d been using into the basin with a satisfyingly visceral _shlap_. He must still be under the influence of that monster’s poison to be feeling so _sentimental_.

With the dishes set aside to dry on their own and the fire in the stove conscientiously banked, he was left with...nothing. He _could_ take Alucard’s clipped directive and try to make his way back to the room he’d been lent, _or_ he could do what he usually did when he felt restless and attempt to wander regardless of the fang-faced cretin’s ‘generous’ warning against doing just that.

 _Well, to hell with_ him _._

The halls beyond the kitchen door were cavernous, and though he was loath to admit it, Trevor felt dwarfed. The light from the candelabra made little difference when pitted against the sterile illumination from the buzzing lamps that lined the walls, but its weight in his hand was a comfort. His free hand reflexively went to the place where the Morningstar would usually be hanging from his belt, and he cursed when he realized that he had no idea where either were. Presumably Alucard had recovered it and just hadn’t thought to return it because of the surprise of finding Trevor unexpectedly awake, but the fact that he had no idea of where it _was_ made the flesh between his shoulder blades crawl in anticipation of some kind of attack.

“You’d better have cleared this place out, you bloodsucking prick!” He huffed, clenching his fists as he chose a direction and started walking with the echoes of his shout bouncing impotently down the corridor ahead of him. He was no coward, but a silver candlestick wouldn’t do much more than irritate the infernal horrors he was sure Dracula’s bloody castle was likely to host.

His explorations proved surprisingly fruitless, regardless of the prickling of his instincts. He came upon nothing but empty hallway after empty hallway as he picked his way along. The ache in his hip crawled up his lower back as he tried to spare his leg, and he had to pause a handful of times to catch his breath as his ribs protested, but at least Alucard had decided to go hang from a ceiling somewhere and leave him to his own devices rather than hover. Signs of the blond’s presence were everywhere he looked regardless, from the way debris had been swept off to the sides of the hallways and heaped in corners for later removal to the occasional shattered windowpane boarded up with fresh-cut wood. There seemed to be little rhyme or reason to what had gotten finished and what hadn’t, but Trevor supposed it made sense. Alucard had all the time in the world.

Trevor huffed softly, leaning his shoulder against one of the walls and waiting out an uncomfortable spasm in his lower back as he mulled the thought over. It was true, wasn’t it? Of course there was the chance that, as a half-vampire, the man wouldn’t have the functional immortality of his infernal father, but who knew for certain? As far as he was aware, Alucard was unique in his position as a half-breed, and especially in his position as the son of the Lord of Shadows himself. Even a simple thrall of a vampire as powerful as Vlad Ţepeş would have obscene strength, longevity, and endurance; the power, knowledge, and training the monster had bestowed on his only blood relative more or less elevated Alucard to the status of a demigod. Only the influence of his human mother had convinced him to be a _benevolent_ one.

He shook himself out of his reverie, bracing his forearm against the stone for support as he continued walking, trying to clear the thoughts buzzing through his head with movement and the much more bearable ache in his body. He was Trevor Fucking Belmont, not a bloody philosopher. No point in thinking about what it would be like to live without caring about the passage of time, to know that there would always be another day to start something, to learn something, to give a shit. A lifetime ago, Trevor’s father had told him that it was that sense of timelessness that truly made the vampire a monster. That at their core, they were nothing more than humans with a limitless capacity for selfishness borne from the lonely, painful knowledge that they themselves were all that would endure the ravages of time. Trevor remembered feeling so very confused that night by the roaring fire, watching his father’s profile in the flickering light, listening to the unfamiliar sound of sadness in the voice of the man who had been his hero since he’d been old enough to have one. The memory left him feeling sick and angry as all of them did when they managed to surface.

Watery, pre-dawn sunlight was starting to peek through cracks in the masonry as Trevor finally reached a portion of the castle that he recognized as leading to the main doorway. Patches of the marble floor and what carpet had survived showed gouges and scorch marks from the fighting. He hobbled over to a clear, unbroken portion of the staircase to take a seat and rest a moment, groaning as he sank down onto the cold stone steps. A little further, and he’d have the option of pushing past the wide front doors and standing in the sun and fresh air...to what end, he had no clue. The distance from the castle to the Hold would be ambitious for him to attempt considering the state of his body and the fact that he was unarmed; and he had no idea where Alucard had put his horse…

“I’d be interested in hearing what your plan was from here, but knowing you, you haven’t got one.”

Trevor didn't bother to hold back the frustrated groan that welled up from the pit of his chest. He’d always hated the fact that he’d never quite been able to pin down the man, that Alucard could just _sneak up on him_ , and the confirmation that he’d most likely had a babysitter hovering over him during the whole of his walk was infuriating. He hadn’t sensed even the smallest hint of the other man’s presence, which either meant that he was losing his touch—doubtful—or that he still felt comfortable enough around the blond to trust that Alucard wouldn’t do anything untoward. He refused to think too deeply about the latter, all too eager to continue ignoring the stupidly sentimental nibbling of guilt he felt for having functionally abandoned the man.

“Look, if you’re going to stand there and be snide, I—”

“Do shut up,” Alucard huffed, stepping out from behind a pillar with his arms crossed over his chest. “As happy as I’d be to leave you here to do yourself some greater injury, _I_ am the one who will have to deal with it in the long run, and I hardly relish the idea of having to hunt down your stinking corpse after you’ve managed to die in some abandoned corner of the castle like a stray cat.”

“Oh _fuck_ off,” Trevor spat, a sudden rush of anger giving him the strength to stand all at once but not, unfortunately, the endurance to ignore the sudden, lancing pain of his hip bitterly protesting the movement. He would have fallen down the stairs had Alucard not suddenly been at his elbow, bracing him. 

Alucard made a soft, thoughtful sound as Trevor grit his teeth and sucked in a harsh breath, his eyes screwed tightly shut as little starbursts of agony went off behind his eyelids. He shouldn’t have stopped moving. His muscles had all started to seize the moment he’d sat down, and standing as suddenly as he had left him feeling like he’d just been thrown from a horse, winded and aching in ways that he hadn’t quite been prepared to deal with.

“As riveting as the rest of your statement was undoubtedly going to be, I suppose we ought to deal with this before you continue your charming oratory,” Alucard sighed, ignoring the gasped curse Trevor directed at him as he was effortlessly hoisted into the blond’s arms. “Now don’t squirm, or I’ll drop you.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, with my work, this is turning out to be the slowest of burns. Comments would be much appreciated! <3

When curses, scathing insults, and, finally, gruff cajoling fell on deaf ears, Trevor was forced to lapse into silence. His ego felt more bruised than his hip, but Alucard seemed hell-bent on carrying him down flights of stairs and along hallways without more than an occasional withering glance. Admittedly, the sudden stabs of pain that had resulted from the few times the blond had readjusted his grip a little too quickly or firmly had winded Trevor all over again, but he’d have to be unconscious or worse to ever allow anyone to carry him about like a new bride without complaint.

“This place is a fucking disaster,” he growled after a long stretch of silence that was broken only by the sound of Alucard’s bootheels on the floorstones, shifting a little to at least sling an arm around the blond’s neck so he could be a halfway active participant in the mortifying process. A lock of Alucard’s impossibly fine hair brushed against his cheek as he shifted restlessly in the man’s alarmingly solid grasp and he swatted it away with his free hand.

“Yes, well, as I recall Sypha smashed it about somewhat before landing it here,” the blond’s tone was clipped, his voice taut with irritation. Trevor took some small comfort in the knowledge that he’d managed to chisel past the bland air of casual superiority that Alucard usually cloaked himself with.

“I fucking _know_ that, gobshite. What I _meant_ is that it’s huge and everything looks the fucking same. How in God’s name is anyone supposed to get anything done in this sprawl?”

“In its heyday, Dracula’s castle swarmed with servants, soldiers, and courtiers. It was the heart of the Empire of the Night.” Trevor rolled his eyes, disgusted by the recitation. He would have preferred silence to the regurgitation of something Alucard had undoubtedly been told by his _illustrious_ father.

“How can you bring yourself to live in this bloody labyrinth?” He soldiered on, deliberately ignoring the other man.

“It has its advantages,” Alucard heaved a long-suffering sigh, the skin between his delicately arched brows pinched. He looked surprisingly young when he was peevish.

“How could I have failed to consider the attraction of having miles of sinister, crumbling fuckall at my fingertips whenever I might want it,” Trevor grunted, his frown deepening as Alucard rounded another corner in his interminable wandering. Much to his surprise, the corridor the blond was leading them down seemed to actually have an _ending_ , terminating in a tall wall with an intricate mural. The floor was littered with small, colorful tiles that had been popped out of their places, but there were enough still in place that Trevor could clearly make out the image they had been arranged to display: a jewel-toned forest clearing with a crystalline pond in which wicked-eyed nymphs frolicked, their voluptuous bodies on full display. The image sparkled in the artificial light and looked astonishingly lifelike. It actually took a moment for him to realize that the sound of running water echoing from somewhere off to their left was real, rather than a figment of his imagination inspired by the artful sparkle of the small waterfall that fed the nymphs’ playground.

The set of Alucard’s shoulders changed slightly as he turned, chasing the sound down a short hall that quickly opened to a dark chamber with air that was thick with steam.

The sound of flowing water was louder, echoing around them disconcertingly. Although it was pitch black, Alucard’s footsteps didn’t falter, and after a few short strides the blond put Trevor down on what felt like a wide stone bench with a slightly rougher bump than was strictly necessary, disappearing into the sultry darkness without bothering to say a word. Sweat prickled across Trevor’s scalp as he waited, his ears straining to track the other man’s footsteps. He was just about to say something snide when the sound of a lever being pulled broke the dripping silence and light flooded the room.

If he had been anyone else, Trevor would have gaped. He was fairly sure that his expression betrayed his surprise regardless, if the low chuckle he heard echoing from somewhere off to his left was any indication.

The sheer _size_ of the room was baffling. Trevor could only barely make out the far wall of the round chamber through the steam, and he had to lean back to see the dome of the ceiling. He would think he was in some vast cathedral were it not for the huge, octagonal pool set into the floor. The flowing water he’d heard issued from the upturned maw of a gargantuan stone sculpture of a dragon that reared, fearsome and furious, out of the centre of the pool, its jet scales shimmering and steaming from the cascades that rolled over its surface. The bottom of the pool was tiled in a riot of crimson shades; the rippling water looked like the blood of a million damned souls.

When he craned his neck to stare upwards, he realized with a slight shock that the domed ceiling had been painted to emulate the sky, and that the light that was flooding the room was radiating from the oculus in its centre in a mockery of the sun at noon. The walls had been painstakingly painted with a sprawling vista of mountain peaks which offset the thick clouds of steam to make it seem as though they really were a thousand feet in the air rather than in the bowels of Dracula’s castle. 

“I admit, it’s a bit ostentatious, but there’s little better for aching muscles than a good hot soak.” 

Trevor snorted, shaking his head and scowling at the other man as he swaggered back into view. Bathing wasn’t an alien concept to Trevor, regardless of what his detractors might think. It was generally a cold, joyless process he forced himself to undertake after a particularly messy encounter with some hellspawn, and he’d more or less been in the habit of doing little more than occasionally wiping down the bits that showed with a wet rag prior to his prophecy-fuelled conscription into the war against the forces of evil. Even after that point, actual _bathing_ had generally been out of the question. As fastidious as Speakers could be, the most Sypha usually forced on him was a brusque wipedown with coarse soap and a bucketful of magically heated water. Admittedly, he’d had a handful of pleasant experiences in various steam rooms and, once, a full Turkish bath, but he’d be lying if he said that he had ever seen anything like _this_ and he could tell that Alucard _knew_ it. The smug bastard was back in full form, obviously taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in the fact that he was so used to the admittedly mind-boggling spectacle that he could treat it like it was commonplace.

“This is fucking ridiculous. You’re too good for a barrel, are you? Disgusting.”

“You’ll thank me in a minute,” Alucard huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and considering Trevor for a long moment. “Well, go on. Unless you need my help undressing?”

What followed was a battle of wills that Trevor knew from the outset he was going to lose. A cold wave of certainty knotted in his gut as he sat there, and he _knew_ Alucard wasn’t about to toss him into the pool clothed no matter how long he spent glaring or how vitriolic he chose to get. It wasn’t that Trevor was a prude, it was just that the fang-faced son of a bitch’s attitude always put his teeth on edge. It was one thing for the prick to undress him when he was unconscious, but he could already tell that he was going to need help to get his boots and pants off, and he wasn’t sure his pride would survive the blow unless he could somehow turn the scenario in his favor.

“Well, I _might_ see fit to let you help if you ask nicely enough,” he leaned back a little, forcing a cocksure grin like he had during any number of bar fights. “I get the distinct feeling that you’ll look good on your knees.”

The blond’s golden eyes went from all bemused to as flat and hard as coins. Trevor pressed the temporary advantage by lifting the foot of his uninjured leg in a haughty invitation for the other man to help him off with his boot. It was Alucard’s turn to wage an internal war. He’d made the offer, and unless he wanted to pull Trevor to the floor by pulling his boots off while standing, he’d _have_ to kneel. Whatever distaste the dhampir felt for his company, Alcuard seemed utterly committed to making sure that his injuries weren’t worsened, so the likelihood that he’d casually let Trevor fall to the ground after having gone through such lengths to prevent it from happening earlier seemed remote.

A glacial bitterness seemed to radiate off of Alucard as he slowly sank to his knees, the movement at one and the same time sensuously graceful and chillingly threatening. Trevor was reminded of a tiger he’d seen once, an exhibition in a travelling circus passing through Bucharest. Alucard’s eyes blazed with the same angry challenge the huge cat had issued through the bars of its cage as it had paced, the promise of fangs and claws and _worse_ crackling through the air between them.

Trevor half expected the man to be brusque, but Alucard’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he wordlessly eased Trevor’s boots off, putting them off to one side and out of the way. The trousers came next, and though there was a slight hiccough as Trevor forced himself to rise off of his ass enough to tug them down over his hips and his muscles seized uncomfortably, it was mere moments before Trevor was sitting bare-assed and braced for a fight and Alcuard was once again on his feet, brusquely folding the garment.

“I’m sure you can manage your shirt,” the words were bitten out, clipped and tight. It made everything easier, honestly; set a more comfortable, familiar tension in Trevor’s shoulders than the awkward one Alucard’s earlier attentiveness had stirred up. Rather than respond, Trevor turned his attention to tugging the too-tight shirt he’d been loaned up and over his head, grunting as his ribs protested against the way he stretched. The sleeves clung to his arms stubbornly, binding his arms together for just long enough to be irritating, and his attention was so completely consumed by the awkward process of disentangling himself that he was oblivious to his surroundings until he finally freed his hands, wadding the now inside-out garment into a ball and slapping it down onto the bench next to his hip in frustration.

When he looked up again, it was to an unexpected sight.

Up to this point, he’d only seen Alucard bare-chested. Though it was true that the man’s skin-tight leather breeches left little to the imagination, it was something else entirely to be face to crotch with the bastard. The flesh of the dhampir’s buttocks and long legs looked just as alabaster-smooth and sculpted as the rest of him, and the thatch of blond hair surrounding his cock was just as golden and well manicured as the hair on his head. The man’s effortless perfection made Trevor feel painfully aware of the coarseness of his own body. He hardly felt _ashamed_...just... _human_. Excruciatingly so. Scarred and hairy and thick-jointed and imperfect next to Alucard’s lithe, preternatural beauty.

Alucard’s eyes were stolidly fixed on his own clothes, which he was carefully and deliberately folding and laying out on the far end of the bench. When the man finally turned, he locked eyes with Trevor in an unspoken, venomous challenge. Trevor returned the look as blandly as he could regardless of the way he could feel the hairs at the nape of his neck rise in response to the screeched warnings of his animal hindbrain.

Alucard’s every tendon was as taut as a bowstring when he bent to jostle Trevor back into his arms. The man’s anger seemed to radiate off of him in waves, raising goosebumps on Trevor’s flesh wherever they touched.

“It would, perhaps, behoove you to remember that you are at my mercy at the moment.” This close, Trevor could hear the tiniest lupine rumble under the words, a subconscious ploy to make the monkey huddling behind Trevor’s higher thought processes start gibbering louder.

“If you try drowning me I swear to God and all His angels that my last act on Earth will be shitting in your bath.”

“Disgusting.”

It would almost have been understandable at that point for Alucard to unceremoniously dump him into the water. Trevor fancied he could feel the moment of thoughtful hesitation as the blond stood at the edge of the pool, but some inner voice seemed to sway the sanctimonious bastard towards being the ‘better man’, and he instead carried Trevor down into the steaming pool carefully enough that there was no real room for complaint.


End file.
